Valence Theory
by enigma731
Summary: He had been unable to quiet these doubts the first time, to follow Cameron to Chicago and save their future together. Now, Chase wonders whether he is moving toward atonement or disaster. Sequel to The Long Count; sick!Chase; hurt/comfort. On permanent hiatus.
1. Chapter 1

TITLE: Valence Theory (1/?)

AUTHOR: enigma731

PAIRING: Chase/Cameron

RATING: T

SUMMARY: He had been unable to quiet these doubts the first time, to follow Cameron to Chicago and save their future together. Now, he wonders whether he is moving toward atonement or disaster. A sequel to The Long Count.

NOTES: This is almost certainly going to be my last fic. I've decided to write it even though I am in the midst of moving to another state and starting graduate school. Because my life is unpredictable right now, I can't promise regular updates like I have with the last few of my fics. All I can tell you is that I'm doing the best I can with what time I have right now. To those of you still with me on this journey, I truly thank you.

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><p>Chapter One<p>

_4:46 P.M._

_February 12, 2013_

_Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport_

_Atlanta, GA_

Standing at the edge of the terminal in the nation's busiest airport, Chase feels engulfed in a sea of life, the overwhelming hum of people talking, rushing a thousand different directions to a thousand different corners of the world. There is an odd sense of claustrophobia about it, as though he might find himself swept away in the tide of a stranger's life. He is reminded of his first time in an American airport, waiting for the connecting flight to deliver him the rest of the way to Princeton and the microcosm of House's world.

Now he can think only of Cameron, due to be on the ground in this airport at any moment. He has not seen her since their rushed Christmas Eve dinner; she had gone straight from her family home in Chicago to her most recent assignment in Africa, leaving Chase to return to Princeton with the lingering question of moving. The past six weeks have passed with scarcely any communication. At first he'd been afraid to contact her, afraid that she might have changed her mind and that it might already be too late for him to make the commitment to rebuilding their relationship. By the time he'd made the decision, her team had been unreachable, in the thick of the outbreak.

Now he feels as though he is staring into the unknown once more, having made the ultimate leap without any bottom in sight.

_House had, predictably, been at his desk on the evening of Christmas day. Finding the emptiness of the condo intolerable, Chase had walked to the hospital just after sunset, amidst piles of dirty snow and windows alight with family gatherings. He was not sure what it was that led him to the Diagnostics office, but he had been unsurprised to find it bathed in the blue-green glow of House's television, a rerun of General Hospital reflected against the glass of the door._

"_Bring me a letter?" House had asked without so much as looking up._

"_What?"_

"_You're resigning, right? God, it's like 2007 all over again." House had turned around at last, switching off the television with the tip of his cane. "The tactful thing would have been to slip it inside a Christmas card."_

"_You don't need a letter from me," Chase had answered. "Apparently you can read my mind. And you couldn't care less about tact."_

"_I knew you were going to leave the moment I sent you to work on Cameron's case." House had smiled slowly, an expression not entirely free of cruelty. "Truth is, you've been halfway out the door since the moment you got married. The divorce just slowed you down."_

The three weeks since completing his move here have been filled with anxiety, a feeling of danger verging on the terror he'd felt during the last days of his marriage. It has been all he could manage to convince himself that it is not an omen of things to come, that he simply must surrender to the chaos of transition. He had been unable to quiet these doubts the first time, to follow Cameron to Chicago and save their future together. Now, he wonders whether he is moving toward atonement or disaster.

He almost does not recognize Cameron when she emerges from the crowd at last, head bowed, energy focused on the large, unwieldy suitcase she is wheeling behind her. She has only been gone for six weeks, but her hair has grown longer and somewhat untamed, her pale skin tanned in the harsh sun. She looks as though she might be returning from some tropical vacation, save for the shadows of exhaustion on her face. He finds himself wondering, as he has so many times before, what hardships this latest case have brought her, what horrors she might have had to endure in the field. He feels fiercely protective toward her now, though he is painfully aware of the futility of this emotion. There is nothing he can do, and he alone has hurt her more than anyone else in the world besides.

"Allison." Her name leaves his lips before Chase has even registered his own conscious action; he steps forward as she is about to pass by, lost in her shell of stress and exhaustion.

Cameron freezes, though he's scarcely spoken loudly enough to be heard above the buzz of the crowd. "What are you doing here?" she asks at last, shifting to stand by the wall, avoiding the flow of traffic streaming out of the concourse and toward the baggage claims in the main terminal.

"I thought—Well, I found out you'd be coming back today, and I thought you might want a ride home from the airport," Chase answers lamely. He is not sure what keeps him from telling her everything immediately; after all, she is the one who asked him to move. Yet he knows all too well that she has never liked surprises, is just as likely to react with resentment as joy. And it feels like a failure in a way, moving here belatedly.

"_I'm surprised you didn't just stay in Atlanta," House had said, leaning back precariously in his chair. "Although actually, I'm not that surprised. I should've known you'd need to ask my permission. You are still Dr. Daddy Issues. Thanks for the reminder."_

"_I can't just drop everything here," Chase had protested. "It's eight years of my life."_

"_Did you come looking for an excuse to stay?" House had asked. "If you did, you haven't learned anything at all."_

_Chase had been silent, unsure whether that was the reason after all, after everything._

"So you flew here—from Princeton—just to pick me up at the airport?" Cameron asks incredulously, clearly not expecting what he is here to tell her.

"Not exactly." Chase runs a hand through his hair, struggling to center himself. "I actually—just live a few miles away now."

Cameron pauses, her silence growing, becoming impossibly more inscrutable as the moments pass. "I have luggage that needs to be picked up," she says at last, sidestepping his confession entirely.

"Okay." It is the only thing to say at the moment; Chase knows better than to push her now, though her evasion stings.

She does not wait for him to follow, taking off in the direction of the baggage claim sign, dragging her suitcase behind her like a shield. Her gait is quick and deliberate; Chase recognizes this act from long nights at the hospital, when they'd first started working together, and she'd been unwilling to let anyone see her weaknesses. She must be exhausted, he knows, after back to back cases and two days in the air. Cameron has always been a nervous flyer, though he is willing to bet she hasn't admitted that to any of her colleagues. His mind is racing now, flying through possibilities as though trying to diagnose her coldness like an illness. Any conclusion which does not doom his intentions here.

"Did you fly back alone?" he asks, as they come to a stop. The bag claim carousel has just started moving, empty belt spinning. If he can just get her talking, he thinks, he might be able to approach an answer. In this moment, he feels as though they are truly beginning again from scratch, even the progress they made in Oceanview eroded by the tide of the last six weeks.

"Yes," she answers simply, stepping forward to edge her way in front of an older couple as the first bag appears on the belt.

Chase follows, still trying to convince himself to remain undeterred. For the second time in his life, he has made the decision to put everything in his life on the line for her.

"What do your bags look like?" he tries again, leaning over her shoulder a little as she bends forward to look down the belt.

"There's just one," she answers, still resolutely disengaged. "It's black. And I really don't need your help. I did manage to survive airports before you came along."

Chase sighs, taking a step back and watching her. She stands in silence for a few minutes, letting the din of the airport wash over both of them once more. Finally, she makes a grab for a very large duffel, scarcely managing to retrieve it without knocking anyone else to the ground. Cameron turns immediately, heading toward the door without another word, without so much as pausing to put on her coat, obviously struggling with the weight and sheer bulk of her bags, an exercise in stubbornness Chase will never understand.

"_You're never going to live happily ever after," House had said, when the silence had stretched to intolerable tension. "You take a gamble on happiness, you're always going to lose."_

"_My relationship is my relationship," Chase had insisted flatly. This kind of opposition he had come to expect from House, his own weaknesses revealed under the guise of a twisted lesson. "Pretty sure I've said that more than enough times by now."_

"_But you have yet to follow through and act on it." House had turned to stare back at the blank television screen, a sure sign that a conclusion was coming. "And my point still stands. You got so carried away trying to make this perfect unreality. Then, at the first sign of danger, you gave up and ran away. Accept that you're never going to be Prince Charming. You don't need to pay penance for being human. Then maybe you'll be able to get on with your real life."_

_With that, he had switched the television back on, leaving no room for a reply. The nearest thing he'd ever offered to closure._

"Let me take one of those," Chase presses, hurrying to catch up with Cameron as they step into the outside.

"I'm fine," Cameron insists, finally pausing long enough to glance over her shoulder at him, though she still dodges eye contact. "Where are you parked?"

"So you don't have two seconds to say hello, but you've got no problem letting me be your chauffeur?" For the first time tonight, Chase feels doubt beginning to win out. He is willing to grant her exhaustion and anxiety, fear even. But she has given no clue that there is anything beneath the façade this time. He thinks again of House's words, feels frustration boiling hot in the pit of his stomach. It feels as though his fate has already been decided, as though somehow he is still being punished for his mistakes three years past. And though he still feels undeserving of true forgiveness, the injustice of Cameron's coldness now is nearly unbearable.

"I don't like airports," she answers simply. "We can talk when we get to your place."

"My place?" Chase gapes at her for a moment, angered beyond words. "Seriously, Allison, what is going on here? The last time I saw you, you asked me to drop everything and move to be with you. Now I tell you I'm crazy enough to have actually done what you asked, and you won't even talk to me? Help me out here, because I'm starting to think I made a mistake."

"I missed you," Cameron answers quietly, reaching up tentatively to touch his cheek. Her fingertips are icy in the winter air, her hand trembling almost imperceptibly. "I want to see your apartment." The day is frigid and overcast, her breath casting delicate wisps in the air.

There is a hint of vulnerability in her now that Chase still cannot quite read, but it is a glimpse beyond the iron shell of her defenses. In this moment, he is struck unexpectedly by how very much he has missed her, how desperately he longs for this to be a happy night. His anger drains away just as quickly as it has come, replaced by a terrible hollow grief, the ghost of everything they have already lost.

"This way." Chase offers a hand to take her bag once again; this time, she hands over the duffel wordlessly, following him as he leads her toward the parking deck. The bag is heavier than he'd imagined, six weeks of trials and buried doubts. A multitude still remains unspoken between them, but he feels as though words are somehow insufficient. Now, he finds himself hoping that his new apartment can be a sanctuary, the birthplace of this new beginning.

Cameron rests her head against the window as he merges onto the highway and into Atlanta rush hour traffic. Instantly Chase feels the tension rise again. He has been in the city scarcely three weeks, unfamiliarity overwhelming every time he is forced to venture outside the relative safe space of his new home. Driving here makes him feel as though he might as well have just moved overseas again, as though everything is moving too quickly around him, a bombardment of threats. That the world has been covered in ice for the past few days only adds to the difficulty.

Years working with the most critical patients have taught him that disasters do not occur in silence or slow motion, that in crisis the world accelerates impossibly, challenging the threshold of perception. He is nearing the exit when the truck driver one car ahead loses control. Chase does not have time to see exactly what has happened, though he is too well aware that the roads are treacherous with black ice. The back end of the truck swings sharply in a deep jackknife, tipping over onto its side, an instant roadblock. The rust-spotted sedan immediately in front of Chase swerves and slows, but is unable to stop, breaking through side of the truck with the sickening sound of metal splintering.

And then there is nothing he can do but brace himself against the steering wheel, Cameron's sharp gasp from the seat beside his more terrifying than the sight of the smoking wreck. In the instant before collision, he reaches for her hand, holding on desperately as the world spins out of control.


	2. Chapter 2

NOTES: A huge thank you to everyone who left such amazing words of encouragement last week. It really means the world to me right now. I hope this fic can live up to all of your expectations.

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><p>Chapter Two<p>

Cameron wakes slowly to a darkened bedroom, lacy patterns of buttery morning sunlight creeping around the edges of the blinds to cast delicate spots of warmth on the flowered sheets. The far window is slightly ajar, a breeze blowing in the cool scent of mint and earth newly freshened by rain. It is the smell she becomes aware of first, velvety and comforting as the blanket draped over her back. Her skin is bare beneath the sheets, not so much armor as a pair of thin pajamas.

Shifting onto her side, Cameron recognizes Joe stretched into the shadows beside her. He is balanced on one elbow, the ghost of a smile lighting his eyes as he watches her. She feels an immense relief in his presence here, an overwhelming safety enveloping all of her scars and doubts. There is no past or future, only the world she has known melting away into this moment of clarity. Instinctively, she moves into his arms, kissing him deeply as unexpected tears sting her eyes. The desperation in his kiss is shocking, shattering the tranquility, the illusion of complete satisfaction replaced by the salience of terrible loss.

"I've missed you," she whispers, feeling breathless now with need, with loneliness, voice edged in bitter tears. "I've missed you so much. I thought—that I'd lost you forever." Three decades of lies and scars crumbling, the realization that it is _this_ which has been haunting her, and not the fleeting premature sweetness of her first lost marriage.

"I know," answers Joe, his breath stirring her hair. "But you didn't lose me, Allison. You walked away. You're so afraid, but you've always been the one with the power. You've always made sure that you were the only one who could hurt yourself."

There is the sound of thunder in the distance, rolling along the horizon like shifting of the universe. The sound continues on and on, growing into a painful cacophony without end. The cool quiet of the unknown bedroom vanishes into a blindingly bright light; it takes Cameron several long minutes to realize that she is lying on a cot in an unfamiliar emergency room, the sound in the distance the rolling of a gurney out of the nearby trauma bay and toward the elevators. The next moment she becomes aware of the terrible pain in her head, as though her skull is being crushed in an invisible vise. Her chest screams in pain as she inhales a sharp gasp, attempting to turn onto her side.

"Don't."

Cameron goes still at the unexpected weight of a hand on her shoulder; it takes her an impossibly long moment to recognize Foreman at the side of her bed. For one dazed instant, she thinks that this must be Princeton, as though she might have been thrown backwards in time, the past three years nothing more than a fever dream. It feels as though nothing will come into focus, the room swimming elusively around the edge of her vision as though she is watching it from the bottom of a very deep pool of water.

"It's best if you try to stay still," Foreman continues, his voice filled with tension. He is woefully out of his element here; Cameron can see that even through the pain.

"What are you doing here?" she manages at last, resigning herself to keeping her gaze fixed on the too-bright ceiling lights this time. "What happened?" Her last moment of clarity is the plane touching down in Atlanta, that characteristic jolt which had shaken her from the edge of fitful sleep. Finding Chase at the end of the terminal feels like scarcely more than an imagined memory now; the rest of the evening is black oblivion.

"You don't remember?" Foreman gets to his feet so that his face is in Cameron's field of vision, the depth of his frown evident. "Memory loss isn't entirely unexpected, but it's always concerning." He looks as though he wants to put her through a standard battery neurological exam, and suddenly the all-encompassing pain in her head fills her with fear.

"Of course I remember, I'm just asking to annoy you," Cameron snaps sarcastically, an unexpected surge of anger momentarily winning out over the anxiety. "Just tell me, Foreman. Your visual dissection act isn't helping."

Foreman sighs, sitting down at the edge of her bed again, taking himself out of her field of vision. Cameron finds this immensely distracting, and wonders whether he has done this on purpose to hide some emotion on his face, or if he is simply oblivious to her needs right now.

"They told me you were on a plane, flying back from something in Africa," says Foreman's voice, somewhere near her right ear. He sounds uncertain now, as though he might be reading from unreliable case history notes taken by House.

"I know that part!" Cameron answers sharply. "What happened—After?"

"There was an accident on I-285. A pretty bad one, actually. It's all over the news. A truck lost control on some ice, and it turned into a large pile-up."

"And we were in the accident," Cameron finishes.

In that instant, images come spilling back as vividly as the phantom memories of her dreams. For a moment the bright, bustling ER seems to fade around her; she sees flames bursting from the belly of a ruined truck, hears the explosion of glass shattering on impact, smells the metallic tang of blood in the air. Feels the painfully desperate grasp of Chase's hand in hers.

"And now you're here from Princeton," she manages, forcing out the words, the sound of her own voice anchoring her to the present moment, a tenuous reminder of her own safety. "Who called you? How long have I been unconscious?"

"You have a concussion," Foreman answers, evading her direct question once again. "You had some elevated intracranial pressure when you were first brought in, but it seems to have stabilized now. It's good that you're awake. You're pretty lucky, all things considered. I think there's a reasonably good chance that you won't need surgery."

"Foreman!" Cameron snaps, sitting up in a rush, suddenly unable to simply listen. Instant pain shoots through her temples, as though her head has been slammed through an invisible windshield. She freezes for a moment, hot tears running down her cheeks, simply trying to breathe through the agony. She knows she has made a mistake in moving so much and so quickly, yet staying still and helpless is even more intolerable. "How long was I unconscious? _Who called you_?"

"It turns out you don't have an emergency contact listed on your medical information," says Foreman, not meeting her eyes. "Apparently Chase listed me after you served him the papers. Not that he bothered to tell me before he made it legal. This afternoon was the first I'd heard of it."

"Where is he?" Cameron whispers, panic rushing in once again. Over the past three years she has grown so accustomed to being alone that in the pain and confusion, it has not occurred to her to question why Chase is not at her bedside. But now she knows that something must be devastatingly wrong for Foreman to be here, for Chase to be absent. Remembers that he has moved hundreds of miles to be with her now, would be here with her despite any amount of pain, were it at all physically possible. And then she remembers her own inability to celebrate his new commitment, to give him so much as a smile. Her own weakness turns her stomach now, in the fear that there might never be another chance.

"It would really be better for you to rest right now," says Foreman, disengagement obvious in his voice. This is his defense, Cameron recognizes, his inability to offer true empathy to anyone in crisis. Instead he hides behind medical jargon and platitudes. His response is like another blow, confirming her worst fears without any real clarification.

"Where is he?" Cameron insists, forcing her legs over the side of the bed. "_Please_. You have to tell me. I have to know what happened." It feels as though the ground lurches with every movement, but she cannot stay still anymore.

The only thing she can think is that Chase must not have survived the accident, that Foreman must be avoiding telling her, that there is no other reason he would be here, evading at her bedside. Tears win out again, spilling hotly onto her cheeks, her breath catching in her chest as though the entire weight of the ruined car is present once more, pinning her unseen. It feels as though she has failed in the most devastating way possible, as though the universe is punishing her for her inability to trust, to love without fear. As though she is destined to have everything dear ripped away for the rest of eternity, her own personal hell.

"Allison," Foreman tries again, awkwardly placing a hand on her shoulder.

But she has already lost all sense of rationality, awash in a tragedy which has yet to truly unfold. "Tell me!" The force and volume of the demand seem to reverberate across the emergency room with surprising impact; several people stop what they are doing and turn to watch, their own personal medical drama developing tonight.

"Okay, okay," Foreman relents at last, glancing around uncomfortably. "Chase was driving. He suffered an unspecified abdominal crush injury. He's been unconscious and shocky since they brought him in. They've had a lot of trouble getting his BP up. The concern is an internal bleed. And sepsis, of course. The doctors were hoping things would stabilize, but now they're getting ready to go to surgery."

This information seems a sudden, blinding ray of hope, one chance at redemption, and Cameron seizes it desperately. "I have to see him."

"They already went to pre-op," says Foreman stubbornly. "And I'm not supposed to let you get out of this bed. Besides, he's unconscious. He won't know if you're there or not."

"It doesn't matter," Cameron insists. "I have to see him." It feels as though simply being in the same room with him might be enough somehow, might absolve her of all her past failures, might erase all the years of pain between them.

"Allison." This time he does not even attempt to hide the patronizing tone. "You're being ridiculous. You have a severe concussion and it's affecting your emotion regulation. You need to lie back down. You're flirting with brain surgery if you don't."

"You think I'm going to be able to relax just because you tell me it's pointless to worry? I've worked trauma, Foreman. I've worked accidents like this. He could be dying!" Tears reassert themselves then, accompanied by a shooting pain through Cameron's temples, little black pinwheels of agony dancing across her field of vision. "Fuck," she whispers, pressing two fingers futilely to the bridge of her nose.

"Fine," says Foreman, visibly concerned now. "Fine. I'll go talk to the nurse. See if they'll let you go back and see him. But you seriously have got to calm down."

Cameron allows herself to sink back against the bed again as Foreman retreats, her entire body filled with exhaustion and pain. She becomes aware, for the first time, of the stitches just above the bridge of her nose, and another set in her forearm. All of her limbs seem to work properly as she flexes them experimentally, though moving her legs causes a deep pain to radiate throughout her lower back. She is trying to determine whether she might be able to stand up when Foreman returns with a nurse and a wheelchair.

"Dr. Cameron," the nurse says sternly, helping her off of the stretcher with the cool detachment of professionalism. "We're going to let you have a brief visit. But you have to understand, it's only because the situation is very critical. We have to be very cautious of your own injuries."

Cameron does not answer, closing her eyes against the sensory onslaught of the emergency room. She tries to prepare herself with the right words, the right armor to follow through this time. She wants to tell Chase how very much his presence here means, how desperately she had needed to see his new apartment, to prove to herself beyond a doubt that he had really come here to stay. To admit that the divorce had been a mistake, yet another misjudgment which has irrevocably altered the path of her life.

The pre-op room is cavernous and frigid, filled with beds surrounded by scant curtains, patients in various states of preparation. She does not recognize Chase until the wheelchair comes to a rest beside his bed; his body is so entangled in wires and monitors that it appears almost inhuman. Cameron takes a breath, trying to collect the tumult of thoughts which a moment ago seemed so crucial to speak aloud. But in this moment she finds herself paralyzed, twenty-one and helpless once more, everything stripped away but the ruthless dual truths of inevitable death and her own betrayal.

She does not hear the cries of protest from Foreman and the nurse as she launches herself out of the wheelchair, is unaware of her body screaming out in pain as she begins to run. There is nothing in this moment but the suffocating, all-encompassing dread, grief close on its heels as though she has looked death itself in the face this night.

Cameron makes it most of the way down the hall back toward the ER before her legs give out, the tile floor cold on impact beneath her palms, hot tears spilling onto it like venom.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

When Chase returns to awareness, it feels new in a way that he will later equate to the forgotten memory of being born, the sensation of moving for the first time from a world of nothing into one of everything. It seems as though he has _emerged_, an eternity of barriers suddenly toppled to wreckage like so many dominoes. And yet, despite the overwhelming certainty that he has never before experienced this state of existence, every moment of the past lies within the expanse of his mind, memory in exquisite detail.

He sees, with the cool detachment of an impartial observer, the truck careening toward the ice, feels the deafening impact of his own car into the shards of its ruined underbelly. He feels in his gut the rhythmic throb of the helicopter blades as he watches it arrive on the canvas of memory to carry away his own ruined body. Then there is the cacophony of the emergency room in which everything seems to accelerate, the spectacle of pre-op, and then the operation itself, in which he watches a duo of trauma surgeons both young and frenzied as he'd once been, take a knife, a bone saw, and a pair of large spreaders to the flesh from the base of his sternum to midway down the pelvic girdle. His reaction to this is one mostly of surprise, at the vivid colors inside his own body—a sea of purple and crimson spilling over skin blanched papery white—and at the way, even in recollection, his soul seems to dwell in the hands of the two young doctors, quick fingers blazing with extraordinary precision.

Now, he is in an unfamiliar room surrounded by beds and monitors, aware that he is no longer living in hindsight. Yet this, too, is something profoundly different from any existence he has experienced before. There is no sense of time in this moment—present though it must be—no distinction between it or any other, no past or future. No progress or passage, simply one amorphous now.

The next thing he becomes aware of is the pain in his core, a deep-seated ache which cannot be localized, instead seems to permeate his every cell, every thought, every heartbeat. His being—body feels the wrong word in these circumstances—seems to have expanded so that he no longer inhabits merely his own skin. Instead, he has the sense of belonging to everything in his surroundings: the sweat-soaked bed sheets, the symphony of steadily singing heart-rate and respiration monitors, the organs of the withered old man dying in the corner bed.

In this state, Chase feels content to simply be still, drinking in this overwhelming sense of oneness, of peaceful powerlessness, of living through the world around him. Closing his eyes again, he feels that connection waiver and then resettle in a different way. In the knowledge of existing simultaneously as nothing and everything, he allows himself to drift once more into the blackness.

—

_11:21 A.M._

_February 13, 2013_

_Grady Memorial Hospital_

_Atlanta, GA_

Foreman is still there at the side of the bed when Cameron wakes for the second time, though this time it is a different bed in a different room, this one with sunlight streaming in the window. He is wearing a hopelessly crumpled dress shirt complete with droopy tie and stale suit jacket, face obscured by the latest bulky research publication from the AMA. He is nearing the final pages of it, and Cameron is willing to wager money that he has read the entire thing from cover to cover. She squelches a rogue tug of amusement at this detail; where other people devour romance novels, Foreman reads medical journals. In her nearly two decades of practice, Cameron has yet to meet anyone else—not even herself in her perpetual guilty workaholism—who could muster enough self-hatred to regularly read beyond the parts of a journal that were immediately relevant to their work.

But then the text of the cover story catches her eye: an article detailing a new study on the contribution of human error to emergency room deaths. And then the sheer absurdity of her situation melts away, leaving her once more with the devastating reality of everything that has happened, the previous night's pain and confusion reasserting themselves with a vengeance.

"Foreman." She forces his name out through the rough-throated aftermath of tears, lips parched with cool sterile air.

Foreman lowers the journal slowly, as though he cannot entirely believe that he is hearing her voice now, meticulously marking his place with a used envelope. "If you're going to sit up again, do it slowly."

Frowning, Cameron obeys, feeling as though everything about her body is sluggish as she works to adjust the pillows and find a position which will make the painful throbbing in her head marginally tolerable. "Are you going to tell me what happened?"

"You had to be sedated," says Foreman, as though admonishing a small child. "And you narrowly avoided a shunt in your brain. You should be healing fine now, though. Barring any more rash behavior on your part."

"And Chase?" Cameron pinches the bridge of her nose, struggling to focus once more. The previous night's events are there in her memory, but they seem muddled by drugs, pain, injury. She remembers her own confusion, the crushingly desperate need to see Chase, followed immediately by an overwhelming instinct to distance herself from him as much as possible in what might be his dying hour. For one futile instant, she hopes that Foreman might hedge again, or refuse to answer outright, but knows that the question must be asked.

"Out of surgery," says Foreman. "They removed several inches of perforated necrotic bowel. Sepsis was more or less a given at that point, but antibiotics appear to be having an effect. They've moved him to ICU. We should go visit."

"He got septic?" Cameron hears her own voice in a tiny, scared whisper. The news of sepsis sends a chill through her; she has witnessed far too many patients die this way, succumbing to their bodies' own desperate attempts at healing. It is a word that most families will never have to know, to her a specter she has only hoped never to hear used in relation to a loved one.

"The surgery was successful," says Foreman. "You wanted to see him last night. I can get the nurse. We can go right now."

He is obviously evading again, but this time in a different and more disturbing way, one which fuels her need to know instead of allowing her further avoidance. Now, instead of denying her information altogether, he is choosing one bit to focus on, attempting to let the rest fade away unnoticed. Cameron knows him too well for this tactic to work.

"What aren't you telling me?" she asks instead, running a hand through her hair. The wisps around her face which have come loose from her ponytail are sticky and matted. Blood, she realizes belatedly, remembering the stitches just to the left of her eyebrow. "Last night you thought it was a horrible idea for me to visit. Now it's all you can think about. What don't I know?"

"Last night, you had just woken up after being unconscious for hours, and Chase was about to go into surgery," Foreman counters unconvincingly. "It's a different story this morning."

"He had major abdominal surgery," Cameron presses, riding the energy of sheer panic. "He got septic. Now you're basically telling me that everything is vaguely fine. Don't insult my intelligence, Foreman. There is nothing _fine_ about _any_ of this. So what the hell am I not supposed to know?"

Foreman takes a slow breath, exhaling in a long, measured sigh. Cameron recognizes this look as his typical approach to giving bad news to any family member, as though personally dreading the process of sharing in some measure of another's pain. "He got septic before the surgery. It was a gamble—Hope the abdominal bleeding was from a benign, self-limiting source and risk letting it stabilize on its own, or do the surgery and risk losing him on the table due to shock. We decided to wait, and lost on both counts. The bleeding didn't stop, and the massive infection further destabilized his BP by the time they got him into surgery."

"And _what happened_?"

"Somewhere during surgery, or maybe during the wait before, we're not sure exactly when—" Foreman breaks off, avoiding her eyes once more. The next few sentences he speaks in a tone almost complete devoid of emotion, facts bordering on monotony the same as he would present any other case. "The bleed threw a clot, and it went to his brain. He had a stroke. Because there was already such a massive bleed, and because his BP was so low, they couldn't give the usual clot-busting drugs or blood thinners. It's still early to tell, but it seems likely that there was quite a bit of neurological damage." He pauses again, clearing his throat. "If ever there was a time for you to be there for him..."

Cameron feels this information lodge in her own veins, like an icy phantom embolus of fear. Her memory seems suddenly to clear again, taking her back in a moment of exquisite focus to the night before, the sight of his body cocooned in wires and electrodes, the dark tarry color of internal bleeding against the pale skin of his exposed abdomen. In Oceanview, when she'd briefly believed he'd contracted Nipah virus, the threat on his life had seemed remote, somehow, surreal. There had been the larger implications to consider then, her responsibilities to the case. And she had been keeping herself at a safe distance still; it had not sent her into the state of helpless panic she feels now. All she feels in this moment is that she will not survive being there to watch him die, as she did at twenty-one. There is an indistinct wish for oblivion floating now at the edge of her consciousness, but it is still overpowered by the strength of her terror at the prospect of witnessing the damage to his body, to his mind. Better only to imagine, she thinks. Foreman is watching her expectantly.

"I don't—think that's a good idea for me to visit," she answers weakly, at last. "I mean, not-not right now. Maybe in a few days."

Foreman's eyes confirm her worst fear now: In a few days, Chase may not be alive to visit.

"You need to do it now," he insists. "There's no medical reason why you can't. You're the lucky one here. You're completely stable. In a few weeks, you'll be fully healed. Now you need to step up."

"I don't think I feel well enough," says Cameron, though this excuse does not feel the least bit convincing even inside of her own head.

"Then imagine how he must be feeling," Foreman snaps, frustration with her flaring now.

"I just—can't," Cameron repeats, in a voice which sounds pathetically small even to her. "_You_ messed up. _You_ made the wrong decision. I—still need to heal." She feels the heart-pounding paralysis of the previous night, almost as though she is watching her own weakness unfold, trapped in a state of miserable inertia unable to make the right decision.

The mixture of exhaustion and adrenaline seems to break Foreman in this moment; his face hardens visibly, shifting from tired exasperation into pure anger which Cameron has rarely seen.

"I always thought you and Chase were a bad idea," says Foreman. There is a heartlessness in his tone now; he is not about to spare her a single ounce of his unpleasant truth. "Actually, mostly just you. Chase is plenty fucked up, don't get me wrong. But at least he sees it. Tries to contain it, keep other people from getting hurt. You—You're so busy seeing yourself as a good person—a _damaged_ good person—you're completely oblivious to your own selfishness."

"That's not true," Cameron protests, though the venom spilling out of his anger is almost a relief at this point, a fitting punishment for the failures she sees all too well.

"You were never going to be as committed as he was," Foreman continues, ignoring her outright. "I should know, you're just like me. I tried to stay out of it. I tried to support the two of you. How could I not? And then I got to mop up the pieces when you inevitably left."

"I never _planned_ to leave him!" Cameron bites back bitter tears at this; on her lips they taste of fragile things shattered, a beautiful and fleeting future laid to waste on the locker room floor. "You make it sound like I had some sort of elaborate _plot_. I _loved_ him. I—do love him. But he changed. I thought—it was impossible for me to stay."

"Bullshit," says Foreman harshly, surprising her yet again. "You didn't even try to talk to him. You wanted to talk to everyone else _about __him_ instead. You asked me. You asked House. You still don't get it, Allison. He's spent the past three years trying to apologize to the world for what he did. He isn't the one who needs to prove himself. _You_ are. Chase is my best friend. You think I called you in Oceanview to warn you about his habits? I called to protect _him_. But all he's ever wanted is you, so I didn't get in the way when he decided he needed to drop everything again and move down here to be at your beck and call. He is here because of _you_, Allison. Here in Atlanta, here in this hospital. _Possibly dying because he wanted to be with you_. And you can't find the courage to even go and visit him? You don't deserve to be the one who came out lucky."

Cameron feels as though she has been dealt another blow by the metal skeleton of the car, as though she is physically shrinking into the thin, hard mattress beneath her. Foreman is right, she knows, in every sense but one: she is intensely, painfully aware of her own failings, of the wicked, selfish fears which so often steal from her actions her best intentions. She sees, in this moment, her choice clearly laid out before here, to face the insurmountable demons of her past and prove him wrong, or remain forever trapped inside her lonely shell of safety. But the fear wins out yet again; she is silent for one instant too long, and the chance is lost.

Foreman pushes his chair back with a nasty scrape and turns away from her bed before leaving the room without another word. His complete disgust with her is palpable without ever showing in his face.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

Chase marks time by the parade of people entering and exiting his limited field of vision. The first is a young resident who moves with the frenetic energy of extreme anxiety. Her slender body seems to drown in the pooled fabric of her powder-blue scrubs, her glasses far too large for her thin face. She drops all of her paperwork three times before completing this set of rounds, and Chase feels as though she leaves little tremors of unease in her wake even after she has vanished once more, rippling outward through the room and shaking him to his core.

Next is a somber-looking silver-haired doctor, whose wizened face has as many wrinkles as his tired white lab coat. He is accompanied by a blonde woman who cannot seem to stop crying, and a distant perhaps-husband, who looks as though he cannot figure out how to approach this situation, how to grasp the edge of it and hold on tight. Several times he raises his hand as though to pat the woman's shoulder or arm in a gesture of comfort, but each time misses his opportunity and allows it to drop stiffly back to his side.

The three-person processional makes its way to the bedside of the old man in the corner, and only then does Chase understand that they are here to withdraw the life support machines. He loses track of what happens next, feeling stunned by the introduction of their raw, razor-sharp grief into the relative stillness of his reality. The doctor says something in a hushed tone of resignation; the steady rhythm of the ventilator goes still, leaving behind it a small void of sound. The woman crosses herself, mumbles some incoherent words with a passion which might as easily be prayer or curse.

When they are gone, Chase falls into a deep sleep once more, feeling entirely drained by the proximity of these events, alternately haunted and fevered by the tragedy of strangers.

—

_1:40 P.M. _

_February 15, 2013_

_Atlanta, GA_

Thunder grumbles on the horizon as Cameron climbs the steps to Chase's new apartment. There is an unseasonably warm breeze snapping through the few brown leaves still clinging to the trees, shockingly incongruous with the small patches of ice glistening on the roads and sidewalks, turning the winter world treacherous. Cameron is filled with a profound sense of unease, the pain in her head and her muscles picking up again with the slightest bit of exertion. She tells herself that the wild pounding of her heart is simply a product of the stairs and the coming storm, though the past thirty-six hours have passed in a similar state of anxious limbo. Foreman has not been back to see her, in fact has made no attempt to contact her again since leaving her room in the hospital. She ought to have checked on Chase before accepting her own discharge, she knows, should at least have asked someone for an update on his condition. But having allowed her fear to claim power over her once, she has instead continued on the path of instinct, telling herself that someone would surely have notified her had true catastrophe occurred.

Instead, she has made only a brief stop at her own nearly-forgotten home to shower and change before forging ahead to complete the trip to Chase's new apartment so jarringly aborted by the accident. Her own apartment still feels dark and uninhabited; most of her more personal belongings are still packed away, as though waiting for her to finish reinventing herself. Since starting with the CDC, she has taken as many overseas assignments as possible, never truly settling here. She has been fleeing her past for more than a decade, as each new beginning turns to another regret.

At Chase's front door, Cameron pauses, slowed for the first time in her desperate journey here. Her CDC credentials had made it simple enough to obtain his new address from the hospital, but now she is confronted by the task of getting inside. She could attempt to go to the office and lie to his landlord, she thinks, but does not trust herself to carry it off. Instead she allows memory and reflex to take over. It takes her three tries to get through the lock; it has been years since she last attempted to enter a home in this fashion, and a residual prickle of guilt reminds her that this is yet more proof of House's indelible mark on her.

The inside of the apartment is a surprise, though in retrospect Cameron is not sure what she has been expecting. Boxes, she supposes, or a room still unfurnished, uncommitted. Instead, the place is already thoughtfully laid out, clearly very much inhabited, complete with dishes in the sink and Chase's extensive book collection lined up in meticulous order on the shelf.

As she moves into the bedroom, Cameron feels relief mingled with a sick sense of shame. She has fully doubted the sincerity of his intentions in moving here, she realizes now, had allowed the tiny, perpetually terrified part of her mind convince her that it might actually be some sort of cruel trick. She has become so accustomed to functioning alone that it had seemed unfathomable for anyone to grant her a true second chance. And now she has already all but squandered that as well, before it has even begun.

The sheets on Chase's bed are crumpled in an unmade heap, as though he might just have climbed out of them, might be just in the other room, starting the coffee maker. Now, she feels the reality of his injuries anew like a blow to the gut. Cameron sits heavily on the edge of the bed as her knees go suddenly weak. The pillowcase smells of his familiar soap and aftershave, and Cameron lays her cheek against it, trying desperately to hold onto this moment in which the worst has yet to happen.

—

The sound of metal chair legs scraping against linoleum rouses Chase once more, this time with a start. Foreman is standing beside the bed now, one hand on the back of the offending folding chair, regarding it with skepticism as though unsure whether to sit or remain standing, on the verge of crossing the tenuous line between attentive physician and supportive friend.

Something changes in this moment, a jarring connection which seems to cause the world to shift and change once more, like a second collision after the truck, a series of unpredictable aftershocks. Foreman's presence is a link to the world outside this state of amorphous un-being, to the confines of the physical body Chase has now all but forgotten, and though he still does not feel entirely connected or contained, he becomes aware once more of the limits of his own cells, bones, limbs. With this realization comes the return of pain; suddenly every thought seems accompanied by a deep-seated throbbing ache.

Foreman draws in a slow breath, then sits heavily, as though making a conscious decision to drop his full weight onto the chair. He clears his throat roughly, clearly uncomfortable with this situation. "Chase. Can you hear me? Do you understand what's going on here?"

_Yes_, thinks Chase, with all the frustration of being asked an extremely obviously question. But it is in this moment that he realizes his complete and utter inability to speak. Before, it has not occurred to him to test any of the functionality of his body. In fact, before now, it has scarcely seemed to him that the firing of neurons, the movement of muscles, would still matter at all. His existence in the state of unity with the world around him has seemed certain, inexorable, secure. But now he feels the first stirring of fear deep in the core of his awareness, brought on by the realization that he will not be allowed to remain infinitely in this state of peaceful flux, that if he is unable to emerge from it, the world will continue to spin on unchanged, and all that still matters will be lost.

"Okay," says Foreman, when it has become clear that Chase is not going to respond. "Well I saw your imaging studies, and it's my professional opinion that you should be able to hear and understand me. So I'm going to proceed based on the assumption that you can."

There is something vaguely comforting about Foreman's characteristic presumptuousness now. It is a familiar reaction, worlds different from the young resident who had approached Chase with a tentative silence, as though his injured body might be a delicate sheet of glass, apt to shatter completely at the slightest inexperienced misstep on her part.

"I guess you listed me as your emergency contact after the divorce," says Foreman. "Which, by the way, it might have been nice if you'd given me a little bit of warning on that. Especially before you decided to move to another state. Another region, actually."

Chase does not hear the second part of Foreman's complaint, is already worlds away by the time it is spoken. The word _divorce_ seems to hang in the air, transporting him back once more to the reality of the life that seems to have left him hanging at its edges. All of the remembered regret, grief, guilt crashes into him, the third and most devastating collision seeming yet again to ravage his mind. Now he recalls Cameron in her moments of leaving: how it had felt watching her redress quickly and methodically after an episode of sex uncomplicated in name only; later, the lonely mornings he'd spent hating the long ER graveyard shifts which had stolen her away; finally, the distance in her eyes as she'd packed for Chicago, ironclad resolve reflected in her very flesh as she'd left him with her last embrace.

He'd been here to reclaim all of that, he realizes in this instant. _This_ is what has been stolen from him by the hard metal skeleton of the truck, his body's own rebellious refusal to obey his commands now. Finally, he sees with painful clarity Cameron's aborted journey to his bedside. The look of sheer terror and disgust in her eyes leaves him reeling; Chase finds himself more destroyed by this knowledge of her latest betrayal than the accident itself.

"We had to do surgery to stop your abdominal bleeding," Foreman is saying, though Chase has missed a good portion of the explanation before this. "You got septic, and it was pretty dicey for a while there. But everything seems to be responding to antibiotics just fine, the infection is more or less under control now."

Chase feels no fear at this revelation; this information is irrelevant in light of everything else he has just learned. This time he makes no effort to reply.

"Our real concern is that you had a stroke," says Foreman, barreling ahead. "You had—well, still have, actually—a small clot in the medial branch of your left middle cerebral artery. There was damage to the motor and sensory areas of your brain. You'll probably have some right-sided paralysis. It may also have affected your speech center, which I'm going to guess is why you aren't answering me right now. Of course, we'll need to do a full neurological battery to determine the extent of the damage, but that's pretty much impossible right now, considering your other injuries."

Chase's newly-realized fear blossoms into panic as Foreman presses onward in his delivery of the news without pause. Never before has he considered that he might have a neurological injury, that selective brain death might be responsible for the sense of euphoric rebirth. But now that the idea has been planted, Chase cannot stop it from growing. It explains perfectly everything he has been experiencing in this seemingly-new world, and simultaneously banishes any hope of ever getting back to the other side. He is changed irrevocably, he realizes; no matter what happens now, the damage which has been done to his mind will never be undone.

"They're going to push thrombolytics later this afternoon," says Foreman. "We'll see if we can restore circulation to any of the lesion area. Unfortunately we had to wait until your abdominal injuries had stabilized first."

Foreman goes silent then, his attention shifting. Cameron is standing at the foot of the bed now, Chase is shocked to realize, as though she has stepped straight out of a memory. Her presence here now is painful, and Chase thinks immediately that he does not have the strength to face her and everything else he has just learned.

"They're starting him on thrombolytics?" Cameron asks, her attention directed wholly toward Foreman now, as though Chase might not even be in the room. "Was anyone going to tell me that? He could bleed out. Especially considering he had major abdominal surgery less than two days ago."

Her entire body is filled with tension, and it feels contagious to Chase; his head begins to throb harder.

"As far as I'm concerned, you lost your right to an opinion three years ago," Foreman answers. "I was being nice, but you lost your right to that too."

"So now you're making medical decisions based on a personal vendetta against me?" Cameron shoots back. "Very professional, Eric. Learn that one from House?"

Chase tries to raise an arm to cover his eyes as the sounds of their argument seem to bring the walls closing in around him, but his limbs feel too heavy to move.

"No," says Foreman. "Actually, I'm making medical decisions based on the fact that I don't think it's a great idea to leave half his brain starved of blood indefinitely. I learned it in med school and everything. Maybe you missed that day, Allison?"

Chase feels as though an explosion is building up inside of him, every cell screaming and on fire as they continue mercilessly on.

"Get out!" he manages at last, stunning himself with the force and volume of his own voice. But the burst of control vanishes just as quickly as it has come, and he finds himself trapped once more within a body that is silent and still, a multitude of words clamoring for desperate release.

—


	5. Chapter 5

NOTE: Sorry for the long update interval on this one. Unfortunately, I'm now in the midst of moving out of state, so I'm not sure when I'll be able to update again. If you don't already follow me on Twitter, that's the best way to keep up on what's going on with me/fic updates. Thanks for understanding!

* * *

><p>Chapter Five<p>

_3:30 P.M._

_February 15, 2013_

_Grady Memorial Hospital_

_Atlanta, GA_

Chase's sudden outburst seems to make time stand still, as though the unexpected sound of his voice has somehow highlighted the relative silence which follows. Cameron stands stunned; she has not considered that he might be conscious now, witnessing her confrontation with Foreman. She feels sickened, like a guilty child caught in the midst of her worst behavior.

She feels blindsided by the raw anger conveyed by two simple words, unbridled disgust she has never before experienced from Chase. Always before he has been understated in his negative emotions, choosing to withdraw rather than explode. But now his hurt has been unveiled by the honesty of injury. After a moment, Foreman seems to snap into action, grabbing her arm and steering her toward the door. Cameron allows herself to be directed, still too shocked to protest.

But the moment they step into the hall, she feels as though she has found clarity again, hurt turning aboutface. Suddenly she feels betrayed beyond a doubt by Foreman; he is unquestionably correct in his criticism of her weaknesses, but there is absolutely no excuse for having shared this with Chase, upsetting him beyond the misery already inflicted by his injuries. And she is certain now that Foreman must have given a report of her failure, her flight first from his bedside and later the hospital itself. She can find no other explanation for Chase's sudden venom toward her when he has so clearly been unaware of the events leading up to this moment.

"You told him," she spits at Foreman, her voice low and hot with threats. The hallway outside of the ICU is lined with thin plastic chairs, and some of those chairs are occupied by family members who appear to be equally brittle.

"Told him what?" asks Foreman, not backing down. He has not so much as glanced at their surroundings, seeming entirely unfazed at having this argument in the midst of so many strangers' tragedies. He is completely unaware of this irony, though Cameron is painfully aware that while he will go to untold lengths to protect a friend, he remains oblivious to his impact on the others around him.

"You told him I left," Cameron insists. "I'm not actually an idiot, Eric. Contrary to what you might believe right now."

Foreman frowns, his expression deepening into something she cannot quite read. "Why the hell would I do that? Contrary to what _you_ might believe right now, I'm here to _help_. As a friend. I'm not playing games."

"Come off it," she presses, taking a step closer to Foreman and attempting once more to lower her voice. "I saw the way he looked at me. The way he talked. The only way he'd be that upset at me is if he knew—And how could he know if you didn't tell him? He was unconscious in the ER that night. He was barely even breathing on his own! Admit it, Eric. Your opinion of me has been lower than dirt for the past two days. You said it yourself. You think that Chase needs to be protected from me. So that's what you did. You told him all the bad things I did, and now he wants nothing to do with me. Which is exactly what you wanted. Congratulations." Cameron takes a shaky breath, trying desperately to bite back the bitter tears threatening to spill over and ruin every last shred of her composure now. She is aware that she sounds like a petulant child, but cannot muster the restraint.

Foreman takes a breath as well, then reaches out slowly and lays a hand on her arm once more, as much to keep her here as to comfort her. "Allison. I didn't tell him anything about you. I had just gotten there when you came in. Whatever he's upset about, it has nothing to do with me. So maybe you should be asking yourself what happened _before_ the accident."

Cameron blinks, taken aback. She has expected a confession from him, and yet now she cannot doubt his sincerity. Foreman has been many things to her in the time that she has known him, but he has never been an outright liar. Suddenly she thinks again of her fear at the airport, her inability to simply be happy for Chase's presence here. Her doubt of his intentions in moving. She had practically interrogated him when he'd deserved her deepest gratitude. And now, she remembers for what seems the hundredth time already, he may yet be injured beyond recovery, beyond comprehension. Trapped with her coldness as his last real memory.

"Fuck," breathes Cameron, and bites her lip until she tastes the metallic tang of blood. For the first time, she feels ready to truly face the selfishness of her actions over the past several days, to really accept her failures where before she has only lamented them from a safe distance.

Foreman says nothing, offers her no distraction, no excuse. He simply stands, silent at last, allowing her to be alone with her actions.

"I think I should go," she says at last, unable to find any other response in the face of the choices she has made, so very clearly unforgivable.

At this Foreman tenses again, clearly inflamed once more by her conclusion. "Allison. If you honestly think that's what anyone wants, then you've missed the point entirely."

Cameron flinches; it feels like one more blow when she already seems helpless to make any of the right decisions. "Chase deserves better than what I can give him. You're the one who said that. You were right."

"Yes, I did!" Foreman throws up his hands in exasperation. "He deserves better than what you've been giving him. You see that now. But that doesn't mean that you just keep running away! Making the same mistake over and over again is never going to lead to the right decision!"

"Then what are you trying to say?" Cameron demands at last; she feels raw, stripped bare of any last defenses. "You're obviously trying to prove a point. I'm trying to listen. If this isn't just about making me feel awful, then what is it you think I should do?"

"Do better," says Foreman, firmly. "They're going to start with the thrombolytics soon. Go back in there, and be with him. Really _be_ there. Don't treat him like he's already dead."

"And what if I can't do that?" asks Cameron, biting her lip in the place where it is already bruised. She knows better than to trust herself in this moment.

"I don't accept that," Foreman insists. "And neither does Chase."

"And how would you know?"

Foreman crosses his arms. "Because you're the woman I trusted with my life when I was dying. Because you came through for me then, even when you had no reason to. And now you're going to do it for Chase."

Cameron finds herself shocked once more into silence, thrown back all those years to watching Foreman suffer behind glass walls. She'd felt weak then, but in an entirely different way: helplessly deferent to those around her, to the ghosts of her past, to the injustice of disease. But she had managed to surmount those obstacles that day, she realizes. Now, she is running from her own impending failure, a predetermined fate so long as she continues to give it ownership over her actions.

Taking a breath, she nods once. "What are you going to do?"

"I am going to find a hotel," says Foreman. "Call me if anything changes." The look in his eyes says that there will not be another chance should she fail once more.

—

Chase is vaguely conscious of the white-coated doctor standing over him, though this is a man he has never seen before. Since Foreman's leaving, he has fallen back into a state of semi-awareness, feeling untethered from his physical existence once more. He cannot say how much time has passed, but surmises from the earlier argument that this must be their attempt at giving him thrombolytics, the last hope of breaking up the clot in his brain and restoring some life to the injured area.

The sensation of the IV needle sliding into the back of his right hand is a shock. It begins as a prickle, scarcely stronger than an itch, then blossoms into a sharp burning sensation which emerges from the dull ache which has seemed to envelope his entire existence in the time since the accident. This pain is an oddly specific reminder, indisputable proof that this inert limb is still a part of his body, still alive, though it feels so wholly removed from the rest of him. He remembers Foreman's mention of right-sided paralysis, and wonders if this is what the rest of his life will be like, complete unawareness which might as well leave half of his body stripped away.

The sting of the drug beginning to infuse brings another realization as he recalls Cameron's fears about this procedure. He could develop a bleed in his brain, or another in his abdomen, he remembers now. This odd little fountain of fire spilling into his veins could spell his death. The thought brings a strange rush of emotion with it; it seems almost absurd that he could still have anything left to lose after this period of complete disembodiment.

The doctor double-checks the IV, then says a few words which Chase cannot make out, and leaves. It is only then that he becomes aware of Cameron standing at the side of the bed as well, near the chair which Foreman has vacated. Her presence here seems to upset the balance of his world once more, every bit as painful as the IV needle. He still cannot decide whether to be furious with her for leaving so many times before, or terribly relieved at her presence here now.

"Hi," she says softly, a little hesitantly, taking a seat and resting her elbows on the edge of the bed as she leans forward. "Foreman was right. I—should have been here a lot sooner. I'm sorry."

Chase does not attempt to answer, though he hears her voice clearly. As he struggles to listen, a peculiar sensation begins, a deep chill settling in the bones of his feet, as though slowly highlighting the existence of each tiny, individual joint. For a moment, he thinks it must be a fleeting trick of his injured body, but the feeling does not stop, instead spreading up his ankle and beyond. It feels as though he is falling back into his own skin, slowly beginning to truly inhabit it once more, though he is still uncertain whether he can control it at all. This must be the drug taking effect, he realizes.

"I was just—scared, I guess," Cameron continues, oblivious to the transformation that is slowly taking place within him. "I was afraid that you might—Or that you were already too far away to understand me. I shouldn't have assumed."

As the odd, bright chill reaches the top of his scalp, Chase feels filled with life, almost overwhelmed by it. He becomes aware of the thin blanket which covers his body, the rough sheet beneath him, the many tubes and wires which have been sustaining him. Suddenly he cannot stand to be so helpless, so utterly out of control. His legs still feel too heavy to move, so taking a breath, he attempts to curl his fingers into a fist. He begins with his right hand, and finds himself unable to accomplish anything. It is as though his arm is no longer connected to his body, though he can still feel the IV burning in the back of it. But the need to do _something_ is far too strong to be outweighed by this failure. His left hand moves with surprising ease, and he finds himself holding a handful of the blanket before he has fully had time to register what is happening.

Cameron catches her breath audibly, bringing his attention back to her presence at the bedside; he turns toward her for the first time almost without a thought, instinct once more beginning to take hold. Only now does he notice the bruising which darkens the side of her jaw, the sharp line of tiny stitches just above her temple. Somehow, in his anger, it has not occurred to him that she might be suffering as well, that her absence might be due to more than fear and selfishness. Of course this only makes sense, knowing that she was in the car beside him, remembering suddenly that she had been in a hospital gown the first time she had come to him before surgery. He feels sickened by an unexpected rush of emotion, still angry with her for a decade of turbulence, of turning his life upside down. But looking at her now, shaken and vulnerable, obviously injured, he knows that he can never express these feelings to her. His need for her now overwhelms his sense of betrayal, though it does nothing to dampen the fear that she will find herself once more unable to stay.

"Allison," he whispers after a moment, surprised to feel the scrape of speech against the dryness of his throat. Speaking is still difficult; it feels as though a storm of words is whirling just on the edge of his reach. It is an effort to catch one and force it to succumb to his influence. But it is possible now, where before it has not been except under the pressure of anger.

"Hey," Cameron breathes, tears spilling over onto her cheeks. "Are you—Okay?"

"Yeah," Chase whispers, with effort. "I think—I was gone for a while. But I'm here now."

Cameron takes his hand in both of hers, leaning over to lightly rest her forehead against his. The heat of her tears is a shock, another reminder that he is alive within this body.


End file.
